


Who's Afraid of Janis Ian?

by clio_jlh



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: From Sex to Love, M/M, RPF, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-19
Updated: 2005-05-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clio_jlh/pseuds/clio_jlh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a one-time thing.  It just happens a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who's Afraid of Janis Ian?

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a Television Without Pity recap by Jacob, which was the "inspiration" for this bit of whatever that _would not leave my head_ until I wrote it down. The main story takes place immediately after the season 4 show where Anthony Federov was voted off.

Ryan hands off the mike pack to Jim the sound guy and heads backstage. Two weeks to go and then he can go back to being a scruffy radio personality and far away from this televised craziness. Back to his regular life with parties and hot girls and pre-taped interviews and countin' down the hits. And no more wrangling scared kids and so-called judges who are stoned or crazy (or both) for seven whole months.

Then again, it is exciting, like walking a tightrope two nights a week in front of the entire world, and the adrenaline runs through him and he knows he's on the fucking top of his game, the very top, and nothing will ever be like this again. Sure, the America's Top 40 gig will keep him from being a complete sad-sack has been, but there will never be anything like this, where you can fuck around with your buddy live on international television with everyone watching, and not a single one of them knows what the fuck you're talking about.

Fine, so he'll miss that part. But that isn't real life, anyway. It's about as far from real life as anyone could get.

He comes to his dressing room door, nestled in its quiet corner far from the circus created by the kids and Paula on the other side of the studio. The door is shut and no light shines from under it into the hallway, even though Ryan always leaves the door open and the lights on. He grins widely, because clearly someone has taken the bait--the bait he just laid out on international live fucking television.

He opens the door and walks inside, but before he can hit the light a muscular arm goes past his head and closes the door. Ryan can't help it; he's grinning like an idiot.

"You should lock your dressing room door," a deep voice says. "Anyone could just walk in."

"Why would I do that," Ryan asks, "when you have a key anyway?"

The other man sighs. "And here I was trying to disguise my accent."

Ryan hits the light switch behind him. "Your arms give you away every time, Simon." Which they do; Ryan loves how Simon's t-shirts can scarcely contain him, how civil conversation can scarcely contain him, really, which is the opposite of Ryan himself, whose clothes cover him neatly and whose speech is always completely under his control. Well, almost always, since Simon sometimes gets the better of him, both on and off stage.

Simon preens just a little, running a hand through his hair. "Have fun putting me on the spot, did you?" he asks.

"You certainly had fun being on that spot," Ryan points out. "You giggled like a girl."

"What would you say if, in turn, I pinned you to this wall?" Simon asks, stepping closer.

Ryan backs up, flat against the strong outer wall of his dressing room, which unlike the other sides is a proper wall, not a fake stage flat. "I would say you took the bait," Ryan replies, flashing Simon a smile.

Simon puts a hand on either side of Ryan and leans in close. Ryan realizes that he must have spent more time on the stage after the show than he thought, because Simon had time to take off his makeup, though there's a tiny bit of base still in the corner of his right eye. "You think you can play me like a violin, don't you?" he asks.

"Oh, I know I can," Ryan replies.

Simon moves in, crushing Ryan's head to the wall with the force of his kiss, and Ryan wishes that he'd had time to take off his makeup, too, because it's too slick, too slippery, and it can't taste that good to Simon, and my god what must his breath be like after all that Binaca at every break, and then Simon's tongue slides in through the clicking teeth and Ryan tries to move out of his own head and into the moment, even though as he does he remembers that the inability to do just that is why he never could act worth a shit.

Simon stops as quickly as he'd started, leaving Ryan to slump against the wall like a balloon with the air let out. He looks across the table, finding the cold cream and a towel, and returns to his mark. While nothing can make his dick harder than a debauched American pretty boy immediately post-kiss, the smeared makeup is just making him look a mess, really, which isn't at all the thing. He puts his hand into the pot of cream and wipes it across Ryan's cheeks.

"I can do that myself," Ryan protests, but Simon bats his hand back, so he takes off his jacket instead.

"I'll take care of you," Simon says as he continues his work. Ryan's eyes stare out at Simon as his bone structure disappears under the dollops of cold cream, so intense that Simon can't look into them for more than a half second. He uses the towel to wipe off the cream and makeup and sweat until Ryan looks a bit more normal and a bit less like a pre-fabricated American television presenter.

"Better?" Ryan asks.

Simon regards his handiwork for a moment. "Much better," he pronounces, tossing the towel aside and pulling Ryan toward him by the belt. They kiss again, only this time it's slower and softer and much nicer, Simon thinks, likely because Ryan is actually present. Despite all his cockteasing, Ryan can't be claimed too quickly or he won't pay attention to the matter at hand. He needs to be warmed up, which Simon kind of likes because Simon knows how to warm someone up. Really, it's just like being with one of those ice bitches he usually goes for, right down to the high-maintenance hair.

Simon unfastens Ryan's belt and trousers and pushes trousers and pants over Ryan's arse until they slip down his skinny legs. Ryan kicks them aside along with his shoes and then goes to work on Simon's jeans, though he does take a moment to cup his erection through the thick fabric. "How can you stand not to wear any underwear?" Ryan asks.

"It's easier," Simon replies, reaching for his own t-shirt.

"No," Ryan says. "Leave it on."

Simon raises one eyebrow but says nothing. Instead he turns to the dressing table, opening the top right drawer and feeling into the back for their stash. He comes up with a packet and a tube, tossing the tube to Ryan, who has since removed his own t-shirt and stands leaning against the wall, naked and hard and lovely. Simon tears open the packet and slowly rolls the condom over his hard cock, looking at Ryan all the while.

Ryan enjoys the show, then squeezes some of the lube onto his fingertips before tossing it back to Simon.

"You should let me do that," Simon says.

"But it turns you on when I do it," Ryan points out.

Simon scowls, as he always does when Ryan is right, and Ryan is absolutely right, because if there is anything hotter than a post-kiss American pretty boy, it's that American pretty boy so hot for your cock that he leans over in front of you and shoves his own lubricated fingers up his arse to prepare himself for you. "I don't know when it happened," Simon thinks as he rubs lube over his cock, "but at some point, Simon my boy, you definitely passed through the looking glass if _this_ is a regular occurrence."

Ryan straightens, his legs a little unsteady, and wipes his fingers on the towel. "Are you really going to pin me to the wall?" he asks, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

"I never make a promise I can't keep," Simon answers. He moves closer to Ryan, grabbing him by the waist and lifting him up and against the wall. Ryan wraps his legs around Simon, reaching down between them to guide Simon's cock to his slickened hole.

"Let go, and hang on," Simon says, oddly, but Ryan knows just what he means. He moves his hands to Simon's shoulders and lets go a bit with his legs, letting gravity pull him about an inch down onto Simon's cock. Simon shoves Ryan's shoulders back against the wall and begins the work, thrusting his hips as he takes Ryan's weight on his legs and shoulders, and Ryan holds on, riding Simon like a bronco but for much longer than eight seconds. Ryan wants to kiss Simon but he knows Simon won't have it, not during the fucking, so he tongues Simon's right earlobe and whispers, "Fuck me fuck me fuck me," over and over, because he can't think of anything else to say but can't shut up either.

Simon is relentless, fucking him hard against the wall just as he said he would. Ryan feels like he's being cut in two and sewn back together again with every thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat. He abandons himself to the rhythm, feeling the soft fabric of Simon's t-shirt slide against his cock. Simon is grunting like a wild man, fucking him faster, and then his whole body slams against Ryan, against the wall, and Simon pants because he's coming in little bursts, little tiny gasping thrusts, so Ryan stays very still, grabbing Simon's cock tight with his ass, until Simon is done and he pulls out slowly.

Simon kisses Ryan's shoulder, then bends his knees to ease them both onto the floor. He catches his breath for a moment, kneeling over Ryan, and Ryan finds that he is panting, too. Then Simon licks his lips before taking Ryan's still-hard cock into his mouth, which was all Ryan really needed. His hips buck and he comes, hard, into Simon's mouth and Simon sucks it all down, every drop, and Ryan slumps down, again, spent and fucked and aching and loving it.

Simon sits back on his ass, reaching for two bottles of water on the table. He hands one to Ryan and knocks his own back in two big gulps. "Randy wants to go out," he says, slipping the condom off his cock and putting it into one of the small plastic bags from the top drawer of the dressing table. He reaches for his jeans and slips them back on.

Ryan nods, finishing up his own water. "Give me fifteen to take a shower and change," he says.

Simon stands and reaches down to Ryan to help him up. "We'll be waiting," he says, giving him a quick kiss before heading out the door, almost as though nothing had happened.

Well, of course. Nothing did happen. They had a quick post-show fuck, which a lot of people do to blow off all that adrenaline. It's not like they're an item. For fuck's sake, they're not even gay. They'll probably each pick up a girl or two before the night is over.

Ryan looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is askew, his lips swollen. His back and hips will probably be covered with bruises by the morning. His hips feel cracked open like a lobster shell, but he's sure that ten minutes out with Randy will put the alpha male right back into his walk. He goes into his shower, wondering why, with the night just starting, it feels so anticlimactic.

* * *

  
_four months later_

Another day, another show. Inspired by Bo, Ryan has been experimenting with facial hair, in this time between Idols, in the fall when there are no crucial Hollywood parties until Sundance. He likes how the beard has grown in light brown; he thinks it makes him look a little bit less like a lightweight, more like a rock and roller. He's wearing a crewneck, a shirt and some crappy jeans and his highlights have grown out but he really doesn't care because he's a _radio_ guy, so fuck it, he's going to be as scruffy as any roadie since he has to get up at 3 fucking am in the fucking morning five days a week to do the KIIS-FM morning show.

His thoughts drift back to Simon, which is idiotic because Simon was just a post-show fuck, and had been no more and no less for four years now, and Simon is older and smarter and more experienced, and Simon likes bitchy, high-maintenance girls with big tits and lots of hair, everyone knows that. And Ryan likes girls too, although he liked them better back when he was getting them with Simon. Now he gets them instead of Simon, which isn't the same thing.

His morning show co-host Ellen pops her head into the booth. "You all right?" she asks. "I'm gonna take off."

Ryan starts a little. "Yeah, yeah, go, I'm just gonna listen to a few things."

"Okay, then," she says, and lets the door close behind her.

Simon and Ryan trade emails every day and talk on the phone about once a week, so Ryan knows what Simon is up to and still feels connected, which wasn't true during the other hiatuses, and he wonders what that means but probably nothing since most of what they talk about is whether Paula is going to calm the fuck down and get together with that friend of Simon's. Though sometimes Simon will send him little things, like a CD of old songs or a book he thinks Ryan should read, or even the crewneck he's wearing which he has to admit really does match his eyes.

After a minute the door opens again, and Ryan wonders when Ellen became such a worrywart about his welfare, when he hears a deep voice say, "Still a workaholic, then?"

Ryan looks up sharply. "I--probably," he says, a little lamely.

Simon walks in and perches on the edge of the console. "I like the beard. It suits you."

"Thanks," he replies. "When did you get into town?"

"This morning."

"Oh. You didn't say you were coming in," Ryan says, and then realizes he sounded a bit pouty there, so he puts on a really tough expression.

"I wanted to surprise you," Simon says. "I was thinking, I think we should buy a house up in the hills."

"Why in the--_we_?" Ryan asks, and realizes that he shrieked a little bit, there.

"You have to come in so early, the commute won't matter much," Simon continues, "and we won't have to fuck in dressing rooms any more, and we can bring girls home all we want and they can coo at the view or whatever it is that they do, and I'll have a place to stay when I'm not in London."

"Oh," Ryan says, trying to process this, and then he asks, "So you're planning on being in LA more often?"

"Well, _yes_," Simon replies, as if it should be obvious.

"Well, you didn't say anything about it. What brought this on?"

Simon stands up and walks around the room a little, as he does when he gets frustrated, then turns to face Ryan. "Are you _that_ thick? Have you not been paying attention _at all_?"

Ryan just stares at him, confused.

"I've been _courting you_, you fucking moron!"

Ryan thinks about the emails, and the phone calls, and the gifts, and suddenly he realizes that if he had been doing those things with some girl, he would have been really into her, and he says, "Yes, I'm that thick. I'm sorry, Simon."

He looks up and sees Simon's face fall a little and he quickly adds, "No, I mean, I'm sorry that I was so thick. I mean, um, I'm not sorry, you know, about anything else."

"Right, you make absolutely no sense," Simon replies, and crosses his arms, and Ryan realizes that this is not going to be easy in any way previously known to man, but a crazy fun house of a relationship, and that is really okay, because he needs a new challenge anyway.

"I was saying, I know a broker," Ryan says, and he walks over to Simon and kisses him, hard, just to make sure Simon knows that he isn't always going to be in charge of everything. "And also," Ryan continues, "you should have told me."

"Well, I'm telling you now," Simon says, a bit breathless.

"All right then," Ryan says, and kisses him again.


End file.
